


Madhouse Symphony

by GubraithianFire



Category: New Girl, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Attempt at Humor, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Breaking Up & Making Up, Clubbing, Drinking Games, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, I mean, John "Three Continents" Watson, Light Angst, Love at First Sight, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Post-Break Up, Rimming, Smut, Spin the Bottle, Top John Watson, Unilock, but then they're happy and in love, evil exes, flatmates, improper use of honey, john is a bit of a slag, john wears make up at gay bar uwu, sherlock and john are both sad, sherlock is a tiny baby son, sherlock loves bees he's a nerd save him, there are lots of mad flatmates, there's gonna be loads of smut, they are both pining and pathetic tbh, this fic is already all planned out and won't take long to be completely posted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5716216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GubraithianFire/pseuds/GubraithianFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Victor have been together for six years (since they were bloody fourteen) when they break up. Sherlock needs a place to go, and since he doesn’t want to tell his parents he broke up with their favourite in-law, the only solution seems like getting a flat share. The cheapest solution is a shabby flat, close to his uni and already inhabited by four other broke students. Among them there’s the charming John Watson, and it’s love at first sight. But is it wise getting together with your fresh new roommate? And living together this early isn’t like skipping seven relationship steps all at once?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adagio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mssmithlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _To Mckenzie, endless source of inspiration._
> 
> I'm falling asleep on my feet but I needed to post this now because in the next few days I won't have any internet and this fic has been in my folder since last summer, and it was begging me to see the light. Also my friends told me I should post it and why not now.

John sighed, staring down at the names messily scribbled on a coffee-stained post-it. Five out of eight had already been deleted.

“Right gents,” he exclaimed, looking around at his flatmates’ bored expressions.

“Three names to go,” he announced, and Greg groaned.

“Still three?” he whined, burying his face in a pillow.

“Cheer up, mate,” Bill chirped, clapping Greg’s shoulder.

“Perhaps it’s gonna be a pretty bird,” he continued, wriggling his eyebrows at the seemingly lifeless lump that was Greg Lestrade.

John glanced down at the sixth name on the list.

 _Sherlock Holmes_ , it said.

“Sorry to rain on your parade, Bill, but I’m afraid next one’s gonna be a bloke,” he said, tapping with the pen on his thigh.

“Oh, come on! Out of five suitors only one was a girl!” Bill yelled, throwing his arms up and flopping face down on the couch, right next to Greg.

“Not my fault,” John grumbled, and Molly tsk’d.

“What was that?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at their only female flatmate, who was currently sitting on Mike Stamford’s (initially John’s friend, now Molly’s boyfriend) lap in what had become their chair.

Molly rolled her eyes, “If you hadn’t dated all the girls around here, and a large number of boys too, perhaps some girl would take the spare room, and I could have a female presence in this madhouse.”

“Hey,” both Greg and Bill complained, voices muffled by the couch fabric.

“Bunny,” Mike whispered soothingly, running his fingers up and down Molly’s arm.

“Ew!” Greg and John exclaimed at the same time, while Bill sputtered, “Bunny, seriously?”

Mike flushed and looked away, and Molly flipped them off. Right then, the doorbell rang.

John straightened up, and so did everyone else.

“Okay guys, someone go fetch this Sherlock Holmes and let’s try to be done by lunch, I’m bloody starving,” John said, ripping a clean piece of paper from a block notes.

Greg got up with a suffering sigh and opened the door.

“Sherlock Holmes?” he called, and then walked back in, sitting next to Bill on the couch.

John was seated the arm of the sofa, that was placed in front of a plain chair they used to question their potential flatmates. Molly and Mike’s chair was right beside the couch, giving the five of them full view of the chair.

John started scribbling down on the paper the usual stuff (age, uni, bad habits, why would we choose you and not someone else, etc.), leaving a blank space beside each word to fill in with Sherlock’s answer.

“Hello,” he started, and his voice immediately died in his throat when his eyes laid on the ethereal creature that was now sitting in that stupid Ikea chair.

It wasn’t right. The guy looked like he was just relaxing after posing for Vogue or some shit, and he was not only absolutely fucking gorgeous, but his clothes spoke wealth and class. Why would someone like that want to rent a spare bedroom in a cheap flat inhabited by four broke students?

“Hello,” Sherlock replied politely, smiling ever so slightly at John, whose heart was now caught in his throat. Great.

“So, I see your name is Sherlock, is that correct?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded.

“Right, so, how old are you and what do you study?”

“I’m twenty, second year of Chemistry.”

John wrote everything down, “What uni?”

“Imperial.”

John scribbled that down as well, before flashing at Sherlock his most charming smile.

“Introductions now, right? I’m John Watson, third year of Medicine at Bart’s.”

Sherlock’s pale neck flushed a bit under John’s cheeky stare, and he puffed his chest out, proud of his charm. Beside him, Bill shot him an unimpressed look, while Molly smirked knowingly. He knew what they were thinking. “Three campuses Watson is onto his next victim”, and really, they were right. God, the guy was a fucking masterpiece. John wanted to wreck him.

“I’m Molly, and this is my boyfriend Mike,” Molly continued, and Sherlock broke eye contact with John, clearly struggling to focus on Molly’s words.

“We both study Medicine with John at Bart’s, but only I live here, Mike has his own place. Oh, and I’m a second year like you,” she explained with a smile, and Sherlock nodded.

“Greg here,” Greg said, his tone oozing with boredom, “I’m currently just trying to find my way.”

Sherlock frowned at that, and the look of confusion on his face made John feel weirdly protective towards the guy.

Greg opened a can of beer and dramatically brought it to his lips.

“Don’t mind him,” John said. “He’s just been a drama queen since he’s been kicked out from History.”

“And Philosophy,” Molly supplied.

“Don’t forget when he tried Political Sciences at LSE,” Mike continued, just as Bill exclaimed, “Or when he wanted to be a journalist!”

“As I said,” Greg said harshly, “I’m just trying to find my way.”

Everyone snickered and he groaned in annoyance, playing with the can.

“Oh, and I’m twenty-seven,” Greg added. Sherlock smiled weakly at him and Greg rolled his eyes, chugging the beer.

“ _Dulcis in fundo_!” Bill exclaimed, jumping on his feet on the couch. “I’m the one and only Bill Murray, not the actor, mind you, and I’m currently taking my MA in Late Antique and Byzantine Studies at King’s.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock commented, and Bill grinned at him.

“John, I like him,” he said seriously, flopping back on the couch, and John shook his head fondly at him.

“Okay Sherlock, tell us a bit about yourself?” John turned towards the boy once again, looking him straight in the eye. God, they were the colour of those crystalline waters you see in exotic postcards, just near the shore. It was a sort of grey mixed with blue to make some weird ass shade of green, and John wanted nothing more but to stare into those eyes all day and catalogue each and every single hue he could see.

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, fiddling with the hem of his tight (painfully tight) patterned button-down.

“I, erm, I…” Sherlock stuttered, before sighing loudly. He hung his head, clearly embarrassed, his cheeks reddening. John took pity on him.

“Just tell us why you’re looking for a place and your habits. Then we’ll tell you about us.” Sherlock lifted his head to look at John.

“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,” John added with a wink, and Sherlock chuckled softly, the sound making John’s stomach flutter.

“I, well, I just broke up with my boyfriend of six years,” Sherlock started, and Greg immediately interrupted him.

“Six years?” He sputtered, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Even the others seemed just as shocked as Greg, and John had to admit he shared their feeling. Six years was a hell of a lot of time, especially at their age, when a relationship of six months was already considered ancient history.

Sherlock nodded sheepishly. “We’ve been together since we were fourteen, and well, started uni together and all that… then he won a scholarship for Harvard – they opened a new course for Biomedical Engineering and wanted him or some shit, I didn’t wanna go and we decided that breaking up was the least painful solution.”

The boy shrugged, but John could read in the slight tremor in his voice and in the dark circles under his eyes that Sherlock was just as heartbroken as he himself had been until a couple of months ago. Hell, who was he trying to fool. John was still heartbroken and his behaving like a slag was just further proof of it.

“Worst quality?” Molly asked sweetly, and Sherlock turned his head towards her.

“I think… I play the violin when I’m thinking and sometimes I don’t talk for days on. Victor used to hate it when I did that. Would that bother you?”

Sherlock sounded suddenly anxious, looking between all their faces. John felt the physical _need_ to reassure him.

“Oh don’t worry, sometimes the house is so noisy a nice song or some silence could only benefit us.”

Sherlock sighed, obviously relieved, and John felt some tension leave his shoulders. He hadn’t noticed that the more Sherlock grew anxious, the more John did as well.

“Okay, so, the room you’d be taking is the one right in front of mine,” John continued, after clearing his throat, “and we usually split chores. Who cooks doesn’t clean up the kitchen and who sets the table doesn’t clear it. We often order takeaway and eat in front of the telly though, so it’s not always a problem.”

“As for bad habits,” John went on, “Chaps here say I have a bit of a temper,” at his words everyone nodded, prompting John to sigh.

“Just leave him be if he’s in a strop,” Molly told Sherlock, and Bill hmm’d.

“It’s just like when you’re dealing with an angry cat,” he supplied, “Stay safe, stay far.”

Sherlock shot John an amused look, and John might have forgiven his flatmates’ just because Sherlock’s eyes were even more stunning when shining in mirth.

“Well, I ain’t perfect, but neither are these three,” John leaned towards Sherlock and winked at him, making him blush. God, god, god, did he want to debauch Sherlock Holmes.

“Bill there is an epic tosser,” John continued, grinning when Bill exclaimed “Hey!” and threw a pillow at him. John avoided it and went on, undeterred, “While Greg is the laziest shit to walk the planet and Molly has developed a tragic syndrome named ‘Help my face is irremediably attached to my boyfriend’s and I can’t do anything about it’. It’s sad, but at the same quite disgusting, if I say so myself.”

Everyone was glaring at John, besides Sherlock, who was beaming quite openly at him. John smirked, “Would any of this bother you?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Not at all.”

\--

“Okay let’s vote,” John said, rolling his noodles around his chopsticks.

The four of them were sitting on the couch, watching old Doctor Who reruns, eating Chinese and bantering playfully. Just another normal evening in 221B.

“I liked Sherlock,” Molly said, as she dove into her beef chow mein.

“Yeah, me too,” Bill called from the other end of their sectional couch. “You could see he was a smart lad.”

Greg huffed. “You only say that because he thought your fancy MA is ‘interesting’,” he mumbled through a mouthful of fried rice.

“You could at least speak after you swallowed you know,” Bill muttered. Then he smirked, “Or you’d rather swallow other stuff?”

At once, all three flatmates reacted.

“Oh my God,” Molly yelled, exasperated. Greg smacked Bill hard on the back of his neck, while John just said, firmly, “Tosser jar, twenty quid, now.”

Bill huffed and got up, fishing the money out of his pocket and stuffing it rather dramatically in the glass jar they kept on the coffee table.

The ‘tosser jar’ had been Molly’s idea. Bill was always saying all kind of bullshit, or just doing stupid ass shit. Making him pay for his crap meant that a) they had more money to share and b) sometimes Bill caught himself in time, thus lessening the sufferings of his flatmates already fragile mental health.

Bill flopped back on the couch and flipped them all of, resuming to eat his tom yum gai (tosser dish as well).

“Yeah, Sherlock was nice but the redhead chick wasn’t bad either. Rosamund, I think,” Greg said after a bit.

Molly made a face, and so did John. “What?” Greg asked, cocking his head.

“I don’t know man, she was a bit… Didn’t convince me, that’s all,” Molly explained, and John nodded in her direction. Greg rolled his eyes but didn’t press further.

“I liked Sherlock too,” John finally said, and he didn’t expect his three flatmates to burst out laughing.

“The hell?” He grumbled.

“Sure you liked him, luv,” Molly gasped between fits of giggles, “Your eyes were literally heart-shaped!”

“That is preposterous,” John sputtered, crossing his arms on his chest, but that only made them all laugh harder.

“Aw listen, he speaks all posh because his new boyfriend is a posh kid from Eton,” Greg said with an exaggerated childish voice.

“Who cares if he went to Eton, he looked like a decent bloke,” John defended him, and Greg almost looked at him with pity.

“Listen, John,” he murmured, suddenly serious, “I’m sorry Mary broke your heart and destroyed every illusion you’ve ever had about love, I really am. We were all there to help when it happened and you know that we support you, always, and don’t give a toss about you shagging half of London to forget her.”

Silence had dropped in the flat, Molly and Bill avoiding his gaze as John glared at Lestrade with his jaw set.

“What are you trying to say?” John growled, and Greg sighed deeply.

“We really need a flatmate, John. Sherlock not only seemed like one of our best candidates, but he’s also clearly well off. He’d pay in time for the rent, I’m sure. All I’m asking is to please don’t cock it up by shagging the poor guy, he looks raw from his break up and you could hurt him deeply.”

John ran his hand through his hair. Consciously, he knew Greg was right but _bugger_ , just thinking about Sherlock Holmes, sitting on that chair with his nice clothes, all neat and fancy, his aquamarine eyes and dark chocolate, curly hair, his plump lower lip… John shivered.

“So what? Should I take an oath? I, John Hamish Watson, shall never lie with Sherlock Holmes?”

“Jolly good,” Bill grinned.

John snarled in frustration. The next months were going to be very, very, _very_ tough.

\--

Molly and John helped Sherlock move in and she gave him the full tour, while John followed them around, unable to speak (he knew that if he spoke he’d just flirt shamelessly, and he had made a promise he was willing to keep). Molly showed Sherlock the kitchen (and where all the utensils were) and instructed Sherlock on not touching John’s reparations around the house (John was grateful she added that bit; he worked hard to fix all the flat’s flaws). She proceeded on showing him the bathroom (one large shower, two sinks, a big toilet cabinet with a shelf for everyone), explaining which towel was whose and which lotion and toothbrush and bathrobe.

Then she showed him her room (the farthest from the other three, just around the kitchen), John’s (in the corridor, right in front of Sherlock’s) and Bill’s (at the end of the corridor). Greg’s room wasn’t actually _in_ the flat, but up in the small, wooden-panelled attic that was linked to the house through a ladder behind the telly, in the far end of the living room. It was very cosy, and the place was covered in fluffy blankets, unrinsed mugs and textbooks from various uni courses. Molly insisted on showing it to Sherlock as well.

After the tour, Molly left, saying that she had a lab lesson at Bart’s. She added that Bill would be home soon from uni while Greg was at the pub around the corner for a job interview. Before closing the door to 221B behind her (but after playfully flipping John off with a “See you later, pillock,”), she smiled warmly at Sherlock and said, “Welcome home.”

After she left, John and Sherlock were alone in the house.

“Well,” John said, after a few agonizing seconds of awkward silence.

“Well,” Sherlock replied, shuffling on his feet and looking anywhere but John.

“I can help you unpack?” John offered, scratching the back of his neck and absolutely _avoiding_ staring at Sherlock’s collarbone, exposed by a very loose black sweatshirt, with a white pattern on. He also definitely did _not_ stare at Sherlock’s excessively long legs, wrapped up in tight mustard yellow jeans that left very little to the imagination.

Sherlock nodded, “Yeah, erm, thank you.”

They went to Sherlock’s room in silence, and John set to work, opening cardboard box after cardboard box by slaughtering the miles of sellotape wrapped around them. The room was bare, except for a bed, a bedside table, an old-looking chest of drawers, a desk and a wardrobe. Sherlock quickly set to work, stashing neatly folded clothes in drawers and dozens of books on his bedside table.

The third cardboard box that John opened contained a Chemistry set.

“School stuff, ah?” He questioned, helping Sherlock lift the heavy and expensive looking microscope and placing it on the desk.

“I, erm, yeah sometimes I experiment. I always clean up though, don’t worry. Victor didn’t really like my experiments,” Sherlock said in a low rumble, his voice reverberating in John’s chest.

John sighed. The bloke still got it bad for this Victor, who sounded like a bit of a jerk.

“So, let me get this straight,” John said, sitting down in front of the fourth box as Sherlock aligned empty flasks and beakers on the desk.

John slid the cutter over layers of sellotape as he talked, mostly so he could avoid Sherlock’s magnetic gaze, now focused on him, “Your ex-boyfriend didn’t like you playing the violin, which is a thing you said helps you think, and didn’t like your alone time, that every human being needs. Your ex was in a relationship and lived with a Chemistry undergrad and he didn’t like you experimenting. I still don’t really know you and sorry for being blunt, but it looks like by breaking up you got the better deal.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, and John could see from the corner of his eye that the man was still. Hesitantly, John lifted his head, searching his eyes.

Sherlock was blinking down at him, clearly stunned into silence, his goddamn perfect mouth slightly agape, his unreal eyes narrowed on John.

“What?” John asked defensively, after a few seconds of mute blinking.

“Who dumped you?” Sherlock asked, and this time it was John’s turn to gape at him.

“What?” He cleverly parroted, narrowing his gaze on Sherlock as the man sat cross-legged in front of him.

Sherlock flapped a pale, graceful hand around, “Oh, just the way you talked about Victor and you nodding to the floor while talking about getting a ‘better deal’ by breaking up.”

John frowned a bit, wondering if he was really that obvious.

“Right,” he said, not quite sure if he had really understood how Sherlock had worked out his disastrous end with Mary.

“Well, her name’s Mary, she’s an asshole and I don’t wish to discuss her further,” John muttered, just speaking her name making the usual mix of old anger and dull pain curl in his stomach.

Sherlock nodded. “Yeah, sorry I asked,” he muttered, then retrieved his violin case and opened it, placing the instrument on top of the chest of drawers. John observed as he hid the case in the wardrobe, and the way his gaze lingered longingly on the violin.

John smiled. “You can play, if you want.”

Sherlock turned to him with a wary look that made John chuckle.

“C’mon just play, I’ll unbox your shit and then you can put it away the way you like.”

After that John went back to work, and it didn’t take long before an unknown (but incredibly soft) melody started playing.

\--

John opened the fridge and a pleased smiled appeared on his lips when he saw some cold pizza leftovers. His grin grew even wider when he took it out and saw mayonnaise on top. Schweet.

Balancing the plate on his bent elbow, he moved to the empty couch, carrying a bottle of beer in one hand and the remote in the other. He’d stolen it before, so that Bill had now segregated in his room, claiming that the remote had disappeared again. John was a genius.

He flopped on his usual spot and turned the telly on, heaving a content sigh. God, he loved Saturday afternoons.

Right then, the door to the flat opened to reveal a dishevelled Sherlock Holmes, his usually messy hair now a wild nest, his neat clothes now wrinkled.

John arched an eyebrow in his direction.

“No comment,” Sherlock hissed, and flew to his room, shutting the door behind him.

John shrugged, already used to his new flatmate’s oddities. He ate the pizza savouring each unhealthy bite, zapping from channel to channel without seeing much of anything. Ah, the life of a med student.

Eventually, he settled on a rugby match of some minor team, sipping on his beer. That was when an unhappy wail spread through the house.

John knitted his eyebrow, since listening to the match commentary was now made impossible by the woman moaning sadly from a loudspeaker.

“The fuck you doing, John?” Bill called from his bedroom, “I was trying some new yoga positions to please the ladies!”

John cringed, the mental image far more than unwelcome. “It’s not me, you tit! And jar!”

Bill probably pretended not to hear, so John muted the telly and got up with a sigh.

He knocked on Sherlock’s door, from where the noise seemed to come from.

“Mate, you okay in there?” John called, to no answer.

With a long-suffering sigh (John was a saint, really, he was, for putting up with all of his mad flatmates), John opened the door.

Sherlock lay on his bed, his arms crossed on his chest, his eyes closed. He looked like a sodding corpse in a coffin.

From his stereo, a the source of John and Bill’s distress was playing, loudly and mercilessly. John pinched the bridge of his nose and took three steadying breaths before speaking.

“What’s this dirge?” He asked, gesturing to the loudspeakers.

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock answered, “Lana Del Rey.”

The name sounded familiar, John thought.

“Has someone died?”

“Just my puerile illusion that love is more than mere biochemical reactions within the brain.”

“Ah.”

Then John fell silent. He shifted his weight, staring at his brand new flatmate. He looked so young.

 _Fuck it_ , John thought, and threw himself on the bed beside Sherlock. They were now pressed together from shoulder to ankle on the narrow bed, and John crossed his arms on his chest as well to save some space.

He tried hard not to visualize how fucking ridiculous they looked.

“What’s the name of the song?”

“Born to die,” Sherlock replied flatly.

John decided not to comment on that.

“Why don’t we listen to something less… this?”

“No.”

John took a deep breath and held it in his mouth, then exhaled dramatically. He started drumming his fingers on his belly, trying to listen to the song.

“ _Sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough I don’t why._ ”

John bit on his lower lip. “Victor?”

Sherlock hmm’d and nodded. “Mary?”

John nodded as well, and in silence they kept listening to the song.

“What happened to your hair?” John asked, turning his head to look at Sherlock, who suddenly laughed. John discovered his liked laugh.

Sherlock turned his as well, and John forgot how to breathe for a good three seconds when he found himself nose to nose with him.

Sherlock’s smiling eyes looked into his. “Bad experiment.”

“You blew something up, didn’t you,” John said flatly, and Sherlock grinned.

John thought it was probably the first time Sherlock had looked so happy since entering the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I won't be able to check comments but please leave one if you enjoyed! 
> 
> See you soon lovelies :) xx


	2. Andante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I got so stuck while writing this chapter! The writer's block is real, folks. This is why this chapter is a little shorter.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy anyway! xx

Sherlock cursed himself for the third time in as many minutes.

It was all a big mess.

John heaved a deep breath. “Ready?” He asked.

Sherlock wanted to ask, “Ready for what? Pretending to be your boyfriend at this idiotic wedding I didn’t want to come to and help you make your ex realise you’re over her whilst Bill shags someone, Mike eats, Molly and Greg drink and I get bored?”

But he didn’t say any of that, because it was John, and somehow, since that afternoon spent lying on the bed listening to Lana Del Rey, they had become pretty close friends.

It wasn’t like Sherlock to have a friend. His only friend all through secondary school had been Victor, who was his boyfriend as well, so Sherlock really wasn’t used to the sensation of having not just John, but his other flatmates as well to call friends.

He nodded at John, who smiled encouragingly at him.

The others were already sat at their table when they arrived. John immediately took his hand in his, making Sherlock’s heart beat at least five times faster.

Sherlock cursed himself again. Since he had seen the blond boy Sherlock knew he was doomed.

Having a crush on your brand new flatmate was a really stupid ass move, for fuck’s sakes. To make it even more hilarious, Sherlock had never had a crush, beside Victor. As usual, Sherlock’s timing was shit.

“Oh my God, Shirley McFarlane is here,” Bill hissed, throwing painfully obvious glances in the direction of a pretty redhead behind him.

“I bet she didn’t notice you drooling, try to be more obvious,” Molly deadpanned, making everyone at the table snigger.

“Who is she?” Sherlock asked John, trying to distract him, distend the taut lines of his usually sunny face.

“Bill used to be fat in sixth form, and now that he’s fit his goal is to shag all the hot chicks from his old school,” John explained quickly, his eyes still darting around looking for Mary. Sherlock had never felt more jealous of someone he had never even met.

“There she is,” Molly whispered, elbowing John. Sherlock saw John squaring his shoulders, and the grip on his hand became almost painful.

A pretty blond girl, with blue eyes and a purple dress came over to them.

“Hello John,” she purred, making Sherlock’s skin crawl.

She ignored everyone else, her eyes trained predatorily on John. And judging by John’s look, perhaps he really was a prey.

“H-hi Mary,” he said, looking so pale and scared that it made Sherlock feel angry.

John was usually cheeky and loud and such a solar, open personality. Looking at him now made Sherlock wonder what the hell Mary had done to him.

“Who is your date?” She asked, feigning cheerfulness.

John’s hand was now sweaty, his lips trembling.

“This is Sherlock,” John said, cocking his head in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock smiled the fakest smile he could manage, and didn’t leave John’s hand as he said, “Nice to meet you.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly on him, but then she went back to her façade of mock politeness.

“The pleasure is mine.”

An awkward silence fell, the others completely cut out of the conversation to try and say something.

“Well, it’s good to see you again,” Mary murmured, batting her lashes at John.

Sherlock couldn’t watch as John swallowed around a lump in his throat and lowered his gaze.

“You too,” John replied, then Mary left, and Molly exploded.

“What a cunt!”

“She didn’t even acknowledge us!” Bill shouted affronted.

“Don’t listen to her, John,” Greg added, and Mike nodded.

“Yeah John, it’s her same old trick.”

“Excuse me,” John murmured, then got up and left the room.

“Can someone explain to me what the hell she has done to him?” Sherlock asked.

Mike sighed. “They had been together for a year when she left him without giving him an explanation. It was… One day everything was fine, the next John was sobbing in front of High School Musical. She didn’t give him closure.”

“That’s because she wants to keep him,” Greg said, and Molly nodded.

“Yeah, she was tired of him so she broke up with him without giving him a definite ending, so that she can use him as a plan B when she’s tired of being single.”

Sherlock decided he hated Mary Morstan. And by the looks of her, she had a boyfriend right now. New make-up, new dress, new haircut. Maybe Sherlock should get up and go tell John.

Yes, he should do that.

“Excuse me,” he said, getting up from his seat. He walked where he had seen John disappear, to find him sitting against a wall, a bottle of vodka in his hands.

“Where did you find that?” Sherlock asked, pointing at it.

“Ah, Sherlock,” John slurred. How did he got drunk in two minutes? Then Sherlock remembered that he hadn’t eaten, and sighed, sitting down beside him.

“My ex is a bitch,” John’s arm came up to circle Sherlock’s shoulders, making Sherlock’s heart beat faster.

“Mine too,” Sherlock said, thinking about Victor’s snide comments.

_“You’ll be alone when I leave.”_

Well, false. Now Sherlock had five new friends, all of whom had accepted him in his oddities, allowing him to play the violin when he wanted, to experiment in his room and to watch Discovery Channel at night.

“Isn’t it nice, two losers sharing vodka,” John smiled, offering Sherlock the bottle.

Sherlock pretended to take a sip, then passed the bottle back. John chugged it.

“Sometimes I wish I was a plant.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “A plant?”

“Plants don’t have evil exes.”

Sherlock smiled. “Perhaps they do.”

“Oh! Idea for my book: the secret love life of trees.”

Sherlock laughed. “I’m sure you’ll sell millions of copies.”

John grinned at him, before leaning forward to leave a wet kiss on Sherlock’s cheek.

“Yeah, I will. Maybe I’ll write something about zombie plants, that’ll sell more.”

Sherlock couldn’t think of anything to say back, not when the ghost of John’s kiss was still hovering around them.

“Mary has a boyfriend,” he murmured.

John’s sardonic smile fell. “Oh,” He just said.

“She is just flirting with you so she can be sure you’ll run back to her when she and her boyfriend break up,” Sherlock continued.

John shut his eyes, biting on his lower lip.

“You know what’s the worst part, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head no.

“The worst part is not that I’m still pining over her, or that she thinks I’ll run back to her. The worst part is that if she asked me, I would.”

Sherlock felt chilled to the bone by the statement. Not only because he felt sorry for John, no, Sherlock wasn’t that selfless.

Sherlock felt chilled to the bone because his hopes were unbelievably crushed. Stupid, stupid Sherlock, hoping that someone as bright as John Watson could be interested in him.

A black hole, like Victor had once called him. He drained people, Victor had said, with his energy and his sharp words and with his arrogance.

How could Sherlock think that John would ever-

“I like you, Sherlock,” John said, leaning with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, his eyes closed.

“You’re a good guy. You’re a star.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. How drunk was John?

“You’re bright, and you’ll be someone important one day.”

John was drunk, he didn’t know what he was saying, so why were Sherlock’s eyes prickling with unshed tears?

“Amazing Sherlock,” John murmured.

Sherlock cursed John Watson.

He couldn’t say things like that.

\--

John didn’t remember what he had told Sherlock while he was drunk.

Something embarrassing like how Sherlock was a star and zombie plants. Oh god.

And he vaguely remembers that he had got up and he and Sherlock had danced together, a slow, awkward dance while the remix version of Summertime Sadness was playing. John didn’t even like Lana Del Rey, but Sherlock did, and somehow, that had seemed more important to drunk John than his pride.

When John woke up, it was on the couch, a warm body pressed beneath his. Ah, that too.

Both too pissed to go to bed, he and Sherlock had decided to sleep on the couch, and apparently they had ended up on top of each other. Awkward.

John tried to get up without waking his flatmate, but failed miserably.

“Shit,” Sherlock slurred, his voice still rough from sleep. It made John shiver.

“Hey there,” John smiled, “Sorry I’m crushing you.”

“Mmh, ‘ts fine.”

John laughed. The guy had a bad hangover. John didn’t even have a bit of a headache instead. He guessed he should thank his genes, what with his alcoholic of a mother and a sister.

John got up and held his hand out. “Want some breakfast?” He asked.

Sherlock shook his head in a childish way, burrowing his face in the couch cushion.

John chuckled, and couldn’t resist ruffling the younger boy’s hair. Sherlock grunted, and John went to the kitchen with a smile.

There he found Molly and Greg watching him with unimpressed faces, their arms crossed over their chests.

“Nothing happened, I swear,” John grumbled, miffed by their assumptions.

“You’re a star, Sherlock,” Molly said, and John knew he did _not_ sound like that.

“You’re amazing, Sherlock,” Greg supplied.

“Let’s dance, Sherlock.”

“Let’s sleep together, Sherlock.”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” John mumbled, taking out his mug and pouring some freshly made coffee in it.

“Please don’t delude the poor guy, John,” Greg whispered, and before John could say that fuck you, stay out of my business, Sherlock appeared in the kitchen, and John’s heart stuttered. Again.

His messy hair was sticking out in all directions, and his tux of the day before was crumpled, his shirt out of his trousers and his tie undone.

He was a vision to behold. He looked debauched.

John was probably drooling, so he shut his mouth and set out to drink his coffee, while Sherlock fixed himself a cup of tea.

Right then, the door to Bill’s room opened, and Shirley McFarlane came out, her jacket and shoes in her hands, her hair a mess.

She froze, then blushed beet red. “Hey,” She said.

“Hey,” Everyone in the kitchen replied. Then an awkward silence fell, and she flew out of 221B.

“Wow,” Greg commented. Molly hmm’d. 

Bill came out of his room with a sly smirk.

“Who da man?” He yelled. Another silence welcomed his words.

“Jar,” Everyone deadpanned.

Then John laughed. At least Bill was getting laid. John hadn’t had sex in a week, which was a century since he and Mary had broken up. He needed a shag asap.

\--

In the end John ended up in his favourite local gay bar. That night he wanted to be chased, and not chase, like he would have to in a straight bar.

It didn’t take him long to get noticed. Not when he was wearing his eyeliner and tight, black t-shirt.

The first guy to approach him was muscular and blonde, just John’s type, but not what John was looking for that night. That night he was looking for handsome, tall and dark strangers to blow into oblivion in a bathroom.

Found what he was searching for, John took the man (tall, dark curly hair and brown eyes, close enough), and guided him to the men’s restrooms.

In there he produced a strawberry-flavoured condom and put it in between his lips, to then roll it on the strangers cock. The man moaned and pulled at John’s hair as John’s expert tongue made its tricks.

But it was all wrong. The man’s voice wasn’t deep enough, his eyes weren’t grey/green/blue, his lips didn’t curve in an impossible heart shape. His hair wasn’t nearly as curly and his figure as narrow and lanky. It was _all wrong._

The stranger came with an embarrassing meowl, and John had never felt so dirty after giving a blowjob. Christ, it wasn’t like he was cheating on someone, right?

He got up and nodded to the stranger, who didn’t even offer to get him off. Tosser.

John exited the bathroom and cleaned his face with his wrist. Ew.

Tired as fuck, he ignored the longing looks the men around him threw in his direction and went to hail a cab, at one bloody am in the morning, like a loser.

\--

John had given someone a blowjob. And Sherlock was seething with rage.

He was in the living room playing Bach for Molly when John had come back, his lips redder than usual, his tight t-shirt all wrinkled. Sherlock hadn’t seen him go out, but John had worn some eyeliner.

He looked delicious, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than for John to bend him over the nearest flat surface and take him, claim him, mark him.

He missed a note, but Molly luckily didn’t notice. He made his best to ignore John, now flopped on the couch beside Molly, his mouth agape and his eyes fixed, mesmerised, on Sherlock’s figure.

 _Don’t look at me like that_ , thought Sherlock, _I’ll think you might be in love with me too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know in the comments your thoughts about this chapter! Thank you for every kudos, subscription and bookmark, love you all! :) <3


	3. Moderato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came out longer than I had anticipated, so I had to add a sixth chapter. Oh, well. 
> 
> Also, this chapter wouldn't be here without [shail](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shail/pseuds/shail)'s lovely ideas (thank you for brainstorming with me, love) and Julia’s support and patience with my rants about how much I hated this chapter. Thank you both <3 :’)

John woke up with a terrible headache and a foul taste in his mouth. Still sleepy as shit, he got up and went to the bathroom, wanting nothing more than to rinse away that taste.

He froze in the doorway when he saw Sherlock, bare-chest in the middle of the room, brushing his teeth in front of the sink.

“M-morning,” He said, and Sherlock turned, the toothbrush caught between his plump lips.

“M’nin’,” Sherlock mumbled, a white droplet of toothpaste running down his chin. John swallowed loudly and looked away before he could get a hard on just from that.

He walked up to the second sink, grabbing his blue toothbrush a little too forcefully. He squeezed the toothpaste on it and then shoved the plastic thing in his mouth.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Sherlock was looking at him. He turned to look at Sherlock’s reflection and found him smiling at John, amused.

John smiled back at him. God, what a couple of morons, grinning at each other as they brushed their teeth.

They rinsed their mouths in sync, and then laughed at the absurdity of it all.

“Something amusing?” Bill questioned as he walked into the bathroom with a silk robe. Knee length. Leopard print.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock snickered beside him.

“What’s that?” John asked, flapping a hand towards the hideous piece of cloth.

Bill grinned proudly, “My new sex weapon.”

“This is at least thirty quid,” John deadpanned, as Sherlock howled with laughter.

Bill glared at them, “You know nothing about fashion.”

“You’re so tacky,” John murmured as he exited the bathroom, Sherlock laughing softly behind him.

Together they sat at the breakfast table, smearing butter and jam on slices of bread, enjoying the fact that they were the first awake, and, apart from Bill taking a shower, the flat was incredibly quiet.

“So, did you have fun last night?” John asked Sherlock, just to make conversation.

Sherlock stiffened ever so slightly. “Well, I wasn’t the one who went dancing at a gay bar,” he mumbled.

“How did you know it was a gay bar?” John asked, ignoring Sherlock’s miffed tone.

Sherlock scoffed. “You were wearing eyeliner, John.”

John chuckled, even though he couldn’t understand the sudden change in Sherlock’s mood.

“Alright, yeah, got me there,” he said.

Sherlock took a deep breath, “To answer your first question, yes, I did have fun.”

And silence fell, a bit awkward and suffocating.

“Cool,” John tried to break it, to no success, since Sherlock (still half naked and beautiful like a Greek statue) got up and left with a mumbled, “I need to get to uni.”

John knew his new flatmate was odd. And sometimes he was unconsciously rude, but what had just happened was just… out of character.

John wasn’t stupid, and had noticed how Sherlock had grown somewhat fond of him since that whole Lana Del Rey afternoon.

Sherlock had never brushed John off that way. What the hell had it been about?

Oh for fuck’s sakes, Sherlock Holmes was driving him fucking nuts!

\--

“Did you have fun?” Sherlock grumbled to himself, parroting John’s voice.

“I wasn’t the one blowing blokes in bathrooms,” he went on, angrily shrugging into his Belstaff.

He went out of 221B with a frown, without bothering to bid John goodbye. He was fucking jealous. Like a sodding fourteen-year-old.

Never in his life had he ever found so hard to stay focused in class. He kept thinking of John, beautiful in his black shirt and eyeliner, literally sex made man, knelt in front of someone that wasn’t him.

It made him see red, and he kept his jaw clenched for the whole day, for so long that it started aching.

Damn John.

What did John Watson have that made him different from everyone Sherlock had ever met in his life? He was _normal_. Hot as fuck, granted, but still a normal guy. Dull, dull, dull!

And yet he wasn’t. John was sunny and open and sometimes a bit grumpy; John was loyal, Sherlock had learnt so when he had heard him defend Bill’s honour (hard mission).

John was also a conundrum. An unsolvable enigma, in the way he moved, so confidently, and yet ignored by most people. John, who was domesticity and nights spent dancing wildly. John, so compact and yet so strong. John, with whom Sherlock might have fallen a bit in love.

Because John let him sneak in St. Bart’s labs to examine corpses and didn’t find it creepy or morbid. Because John listened to Lana Del Rey with him. Because John was amazing, and not at all _normal_.

Goddammit.

\--

 _Goddammit_.

John looked again at the shopping calendar. Today he had to go do the shopping with Sherlock.

Shit. Today that Sherlock was angry with him for some weird reason. John sighed and went to knock on Sherlock’s door.

The prick didn’t answer.

John opened the door and found Sherlock sat on the floor, studying what seemed to be a real human skull.

“You stole that, didn’t you.”

Sherlock didn’t even turn. “Politeness says you should knock before entering someone’s room.”

“I _did_ knock, you…” John pinched the bridge of his nose. Calm down, John.

“It’s our turn to do the shopping. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

Then he flew out of 221B, trying to breathe. Why was he getting so worked up at the mere idea that Sherlock might be mad at him?

Sherlock came downstairs with a huff and a dark expression. His stomach churning, John started to lead the way to Tesco’s.

Sherlock stayed silent for the first half of the trip. Then he let out a quick breath and mumbled, “SorryIignoredyoutoday.”

“What did you just say?” John asked with a smile.

Sherlock huffed, miffed. “I do despise repeating myself, John.”

John chuckled. “Well, apologies accepted anyway,” He said, and Sherlock nodded tersely.

They finally arrived to Tesco’s, and set out to do the shopping. As they walked through the aisles, they talked amiably about their respective days in uni.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s voice trailed off, and John saw him throw a lingering look to a jar of honey, that had a stuffed bee toy attached to it.

John’s heart clenched. Sherlock was so cute. He wanted to kiss him.

Wait, what?

“Are you okay?” John asked Sherlock, because he himself clearly was _not_.

“Fine, perfectly fine, why?” Sherlock replied defensively.

John brought his hands up, “Nothing, nothing. I just thought you wanted the bee toy.”

Sherlock gasped, affronted. “Why would I want that?”

“You were staring at it.”

“I was staring at the jar.”

“You like honey that much?”

“Yes.”         

John chuckled softly. Sherlock had blushed beet red, and was shuffling on his feet, purposefully ignoring to look at the jar of honey and the stuffed bee.

“Are you sure you don’t want the bee t-”

“Oh my god!” Sherlock yelled, going even redder. “I’m going home.”

And he disappeared in a whirl of his ridiculous billowing coat.

“Sherlock! I was just taking the piss!” John called after him, but Sherlock did not come back.

Touchy.

John sighed and went back to do the shopping. It would have been a pain to take all that stuff back to the flat alone.

Before going to pay though, the jar of honey came back to his mind.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought, and went back to retrieve jar and bee toy.

\--

They were hammered. Completely and utterly hammered.

Greg had had the great idea of playing a drinking game with two girls he had met in a pub, and now the five flatmates (plus the two girls), were giggling like morons on the living room floor.

“Sherlock,” Bill whispered in his ear, “I wanna shag the brunette. Can you deduce what she likes?”

“Nope,” Sherlock said, so fucking drunk that his deductions were working like shit. He didn’t understand anything of what was going on. He laughed.

Bill pouted, and Molly yelled, “Let’s play spin the bottle!”

“We are not fourteen,” One of the girls slurred.

“C’mon, could be fuun,” The other girl smiled.

Sherlock almost sobered up. What if the bottle said he had to kiss John? Would Sherlock survive?

Molly spun the bottle it pointed to Bill. Who laughed like an idiot when it landed on the brunette girl.

“Seven minutes in heaven!” Molly declared, knowing full well that _that_ was Bill’s aim, and not just a kiss.

“Hey, I thought we played for kisses!” The brunette complained, but she was ogling Bill up and down with a curious expression.

“I make the rulesss,” Molly said, and everyone nodded seriously.

Bill and the girl got up and disappeared in Bill’s room. Two seconds flat, and they could already hear Bill sing his “I’m gonna have sex” song.

“I don’t think they’ll be back any time soon,” Greg mumbled, taking a sip of beer.

“Let’s spin again!” The brunette’s friend yelled, staring pointedly at John.

Sherlock was going to poison her.

Molly spun the bottle, and fuck, it pointed John.

Sherlock started sweating.

He didn’t want the bottle to land on him, but also he didn’t want it to point at someone that _wasn’t_  him. Fuuuuck.

Sherlock held his breath as the bottle spun slowly. He closed his eyes.

Silence in the flat.

Sherlock cracked one eyelid open and Christ, the bottle’s neck was pointing right at him.

“No,” John said, shaking his head, looking suddenly serious.

Sherlock’s heart sank. John couldn’t even stand the thought of kissing him for just a fake kiss?

“C’mon, it’s just a game,” the girl laughed, “Just kiss him!”

Molly was looking worried, while Greg had a drunken smile playing at his lips.

“Kisssss” He slurred, and Molly shot him a thunderous look.

Sherlock felt like a deer caught in the headlights. He couldn’t breathe.

“No, no,” John said more forcefully.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” Greg and the girl yelled, as Molly gasped in horror at Greg. Sherlock instead was dying inside. Was he so repulsive to John?

John sighed and crawled up to Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed loudly, unable to move, to breathe, to _think_. Oh god, what did John Watson do to him?

He could feel John’s breath on his lips, smelling of vodka and cheap beer, and his stomach was churning and his heart beating too fast, and was John going to really kiss him? Oh god…

John’s upper lip had merely brushed Sherlock’s when the boy broke away.

“No,” He said again, “Not like this.”

Then he got up and flew to his room.

“What the bloody hell has just happened?” The girl asked, as Molly and Greg stared wide-eyed at each other.

Sherlock wished to know as well.

\--

Fuck, fuck, bloody, buggering, rotting FUCK!

John paced the length of his room, cursing himself.

He had been thinking about kissing Sherlock for the whole day, and now that he had a chance to do it without giving it any meaning, he had blown it away.

What was wrong with him?

Probably the fact that John wanted the kiss to _have_ a meaning, and this scared the living hell out of him. He still didn’t know what the fuck he had done wrong with Mary, wasn’t it too early to think about romantic feelings?

John glanced at the jar of honey he had bought earlier, carefully placed on his desk, and sighed. He was already in too deep.

And now Sherlock probably thought John thought he wasn’t worth kissing. John was an _idiot_!

If there was a person worth kissing in this whole wide world, well, that was Sherlock, for sure. Sherlock, who was still fresh from a break-up as John was, and probably didn’t want anything to do with John.

When had it happened, anyway? When did he start crushing on Sherlock sodding Holmes?

One day they were leaning over a corpse at Bart’s, the other John was thinking of kissing him in a Tesco’s aisle.

And, John realised, since he had met Sherlock, he had though less and less of Mary, at least until the day of the wedding, a couple of days before.

And even that day, holding Sherlock’s hand had made his stomach clench and his fingers tingle.

So fuck, John had been crushing on Sherlock for a while, then why was he realising it just today?

FUCK!!

John stared at the jar of honey with the stuffed bee toy on it and passed a hand through his hair. _Fuck it_ , he thought, for the second time in that day, and picked it up.

\--

The game ended soon after John disappeared into his room, what with one of the girls puking in the bathroom as Greg held her hair and Bill’s ridiculous sex noises coming from his room. Ew.

Sherlock, still fucking pissed, bid goodnight to Molly, sprawled on the couch watching Bake Off reruns with a can of beer, and went to his room.

Before he could open the door, though, the one to John’s room opened.

“Oh,” John said.

Sherlock gripped the doorknob with desperate force, gritting his teeth.

“Yeah?” He asked, feigning indifference, still turned away.

He heard John sigh and murmur something like, “You only live once,” before a strong hand gripped his wrist and turned him around.

John looked at him right in the eyes. “I didn’t want to kiss you like _that_ ,” he said, before framing Sherlock’s head in his strong, calloused hands.

He leaned up slowly, giving Sherlock time to break away if he wanted to. Like hell he would. He couldn’t even think straight.

Understood that Sherlock wasn’t going to back off, John reached up on his tiptoes and kissed him with passion.

It wasn’t a normal first kiss.

First kisses should be awkward and uncoordinated, right? Sherlock didn’t have much experience in that realm, having kissed the same guy for the last six years, but… It was just _logic_. You don’t know how someone else kisses at least until you try.

With John it was as easy as breathing.

It was like kissing someone he had kissed his whole life. It felt like coming home.

John tasted divine, even with the sour taste of alcohol on his tongue, that was doing wicked things inside of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock was overwhelmed. His hands had found their way down John’s body, and were kneading the soft flesh of John’s splendid arse. God, Sherlock had wanted to do that for so long.

One of John’s hand was tangled in his hair, and Sherlock gasped and moan whenever John gently pulled at it.

When they broke away they were both panting and wide-eyed.

No one spoke for a whole thirty seconds.

“Well,” John eventually said, still breathless, “That was… something.”

And Sherlock laughed. What else could he do? It was ridiculous.

And god, he was drunk as shit.

John laughed along, the two of them giggling like idiots in the middle of the corridor.

John handed Sherlock something then, and his heart caught in his throat. In John’s hand, the jar of honey and the stuffed bee toy he wanted.

“I… John, I…”

John shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s quite alright,” He said, smiling at Sherlock.

Without thinking, Sherlock grabbed John by his free hand and dragged him in his room.

Then he shut the door and kissed him again, pinning him against the door by his shoulders.

John took a little to respond, but after that he was a _beast_. God, was the man a hell of a fucking good kisser.

Victor had never kissed Sherlock like that.

The jar of honey fell to the ground, but luckily didn’t break. Not that Sherlock would have noticed anyway, not with John’s tongue running from the back of his palate to the front with small horizontal movements that made Sherlock’s toes curl and his belly tingle.

His cock twitched painfully in his pants, restricted by the tight fabric. He could feel Johns erection poking into his side, and he shuddered, thinking that _it was about to happen_. And he was hammered! As! Fuck!

John pushed Sherlock away with so much force that Sherlock stumbled back and then toppled onto the bed, John already crawling up on him and straddling his waist.

“Is this, Christ, is this okay?” John asked, rolling his hips on Sherlock’s, his hands on Sherlock’s shirt.

“Fuuuck, yeah,” Sherlock hissed, and John sighed in relief, tearing off Sherlock’s button down, the buttons flying everywhere.

Sherlock laughed at John’s impatience, as the man growled and dipped to lick a wet stripe from Sherlock’s belly button to his neck, where he sucked with purpose.

Sherlock gasped, squirming on the bed.

This was the first time someone had touched him like _this_ since Victor. It felt so good to be wanted again.

Sherlock felt like he was falling from a great height. It was scary and yet, liberating, like fucking flying.

John’s hands roamed over his body, to then stop over his fly.

“Can I…?”

“Yes, please, yes,” Sherlock panted, and John didn’t need further consent, and just undid Sherlock’s trousers, pulling his pants down in the process as well.

“God, look at you,” John murmured. “Beautiful.”

John was probably drunk for saying such things.

Victor had never called him beautiful.

Unable to take it anymore, Sherlock shrugged out of his trousers and pants and reversed his and John’s positions, pinning John to the bed.

He took John’s t shirt off, and then his trousers and pants.

John was magnificent.

His abs were well-defined, and his skin was glowing gold with sweat. His cock was thick and long, and was standing proudly against his belly, already dripping with pre-come. Sherlock could do nothing but bend down and lick and lap at it.

John hissed, biting down on his lower lip.

“Wait, Sherlock, I have an idea,” John said, chuckling softly, an amused glint in his eyes.

Sherlock cocked his head, staring down at John’s smiling face.

“Huh?”

John wriggled out of Sherlock’s hold and walked to the door. What was he- Oh.

Sherlock started laughing when he saw John coming back to bed with the jar of honey in his hands.

“Are you serious?”

John beamed at him. “Oh, yeah.”

He took the bee toy and placed it on the bedside table, then opened the jar. He dipped one finger in and then sucked on it.

“Mmh,” He said, and Sherlock laughed again. This was shaping up to be the funniest sex he was ever going to be. Also considering how sex with Victor was mostly vanilla and kinda boring most of the times.

Then John dipped two fingers in the honey and smeared it on Sherlock’s chest.

“I hate you so much,” Sherlock giggled, “I’m going to be all sticky tomorrow.”

John didn’t answer, chuckling against his skin as he lapped Sherlock clean.

When he was done, he took some more honey and let it fall on Sherlock’s nipple, to then close his mouth around it.

Sherlock gasped and wriggled under John’s expert mouth, and his stupid tongue that was doing god-knew-what. Sherlock just knew it was driving him insane.

“You taste amazing,” John whispered, his breath against his wet skin making Sherlock shiver.

“John,” Sherlock pleaded.

John grinned wickedly, then stuffed the jar in Sherlock’s hand. He lay down on his back.

“My turn now.”

Sherlock howled with laughter as he dipped his index in the golden syrup. He passed his finger on John’s bottom lip, then dipped then and sucked it into his mouth.

John’s hand came up to cup his neck, and then they were kissing fervently.

“You really like honey, huh?” John asked when they broke away.

“Honey is the only food that includes all the substances necessary to sustain life, including enzymes, vitamins, minerals, and water; and it’s the only food that contains pinocembrin, an antioxidant associated with improved brain functioning.”

John’s eyes were open wide. “How are you still talking so fucking pissed?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I like bees.”

“You like bees.”

“I like bees, that’s what I said, yeah.”

John smirked, “Mmh, talk dirty to me with your fun facts.”

Sherlock barked out a laugh. John was fantastic.

“Well, honey is a Hebrew word meaning enchant, so I think the use we just made of it was particularly appropriate.”

John’s pupils were blown wide, his lips curled in a charming smile and Sherlock thought that it really was an enchanted night.

God, how drunk was he again? A fucking lot, that was how much.

John grabbed Sherlock’s wrists and swapped their position, ending on top of Sherlock.

“God, you’re amazing,” he said, kissing his way down Sherlock’s torso.

Then his lovely lips were wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, and he couldn’t answer to that, tell him that he was amazing, and not Sherlock.

Sherlock writhed under John’s perfect, expert, wicked mouth and tongue.

 _That_ was amazing, Sherlock thought. John had to be the best cocksucker in the whole of London.

John pried Sherlock’s lips open with his fingers, and Sherlock sucked on them instinctively. It was so good, so good… Then John took his fingers away from Sherlock’s mouth, and shoved his index up his arse in one swift motion.

Sherlock cried out, but then John crooked his finger, brushing against his prostate, and Sherlock was coming. God, how much had he lasted? Five minutes?

He felt like a rotting teenager.

John didn’t swallow, cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand.

Sherlock cursed himself. He hadn’t warned John, and it wasn’t like John knew if he was clean.

“Sorry,” He said, sheepishly.

John smiled, a white droplet of come rolling down his chin.

“ ‘s alright.”

Sherlock was hit by a wave of affection so strong he got up on his knees to take John by the shoulders and pin him to the mattress.

He kissed him deeply, tasting himself on the boy’s mouth, and started pumping John’s cock with rapid movements.

After a while, John’s mouth went slack, and Sherlock found his fingers coated in John’s warm come.

“Well, this happened,” John chuckled after a few seconds, and Sherlock joined in with him.

“God, I’m tired as shit, and fucking hammered,” John continued, turning on his side, “Come here, I’ll spoon you.”

Sherlock blinked down at him, before smiling and curling up beside John, his arms coming up to circle Sherlock’s waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you enjoyed in the comments, please! Comments are everything, especially because I was very insecure about this chapter :)


	4. Veloce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS SO TERRIBLY LATE, HERE *throws chapter at u* ENJOY AND MAY YOU NEVER EXPERIENCE A WRITING BLOCK 
> 
> LOVE Y'ALL xx

Sherlock’s head was pounding, his tongue was parched, his body stiff. Groaning, he turned to his side and the sight in front of his eyes made him freeze.

On his bedside table, was the bee toy.

Slowly, as if he moved too fast everything might disappear, Sherlock turned his head.

John, beautiful, magnificent John Watson, was sleeping in his bed. Naked.

So, everything had really happened.

It all seemed like a very vivid dream to Sherlock.

John stirred, and Sherlock immediately shut his eyes. He didn’t want John to find him staring at him while he slept.

“Hey,” John mumbled sleepily. Sherlock cracked his eyelids open and stared back into John’s cobalt blue eyes.

“Hey,” Sherlock said in return. Then there was silence. Awkward and heavy with the unspoken question _What now?_

John propped up on his elbow. “So,” he started, but right then Bill barged into the room.

“I fucking knew it! What did I tell you?”

Behind him appeared Molly and Greg, both looking unimpressed.

“Oh my god, get out!” John yelled, covering both himself and Sherlock up, looking affronted.

“Flatmate meeting, _now_ ,” Molly growled, a deep scowl on her face.

Both too scared to answer, they just nodded.

“Give us a minute, yeah?” John asked, gesturing at their naked bodies.

Bill, Greg and Molly nodded tersely and disappeared. 

“Let’s get out of here,” John said, throwing a pair of boxer briefs in Sherlock’s face.

“From where?” Sherlock asks, as he dresses up, imitating John’s hurried movements.

“The window, obviously,” John smiled, shrugging in his sweater. Sherlock stops mid-way as he fastens the buttons of his shirt.

“What?”

“Come on!” John hissed, helping Sherlock do his shirt.

Then he opened the window and jumped out of it. Sherlock peered down the window, and saw John staring up at him.

“It’s not that high, just jump!” He called.

“You’re insane,” Sherlock grumbled, but started to climb out of the window frame anyway, because it was John that was asking, and Sherlock found that he was embarrassingly weak in front of the other boy’s demands. Especially after an amazing sex like last night’s.

Then he froze. Fuck it, it _was_ high.

He tried to climb back in the room, but Sherlock found that he was stuck.

“Shit, shit, fuck,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Sherlock just jump! I’ll catch you,” John yelled at him, evidently trying to hold back a laugh. Like the matter was even remotely funny.

“Fuck you!” Sherlock yelled back.

John did laugh then, a joyous, booming sound that echoed in the road.

“What’s going on in there?” Greg’s voice asked, and Sherlock only had time to see the doorknob of the room turning, before he was jumping, ending up in John Watson’s arms.

“You’re surprisingly light,” he said, grinning at Sherlock, amused.

Sherlock glared at him. “Yes, yes. Now let me down.”

“Hey! They escaped!” Greg screamed, and Sherlock didn’t even have the time to catch his breath that John had grabbed his hand and was running away.

They ran until they were breathless, lost amongst the autumn coloured leaves in Regent’s Park.

“You’re absolutely, utterly insane, John Watson.”

John laughed a little, “Thanks.”

They stared at each other before bursting out in ridiculous fits of giggles.

Sherlock coughed, trying to regain his composure.

“Why did we escape, by the way? Facing our roommates can’t be that bad.”

John snorted, lying on the grass. “You’ve clearly never taken part in Molly’s ‘flatmate meetings’.”

Sherlock imitated John, lying beside him on the ground.

“Christ I can still feel honey on my belly,” Sherlock groaned, rubbing a hand over his stomach. He could feel his skin had attached to the material of his shirt.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t enjoyed it.”

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. “Well, it was definitely one of the most amazing sex experiences of my life.”

Silence.

John cleared his throat.

“Have I said something wrong?” Sherlock questioned.

John cleared his throat again, “N-no, just… brutally honest.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, just… unusual.”

Sherlock hmm’d.

“Listen, about last night…” John started, and Sherlock read regret dripping from his tone.

He panicked. “It never happened, I know.”

He knew that was what John was going to say, save him the trouble, right?

“Oh… if that’s what you want, yeah.”

Well, it was only logic, Sherlock thought. You can’t get together with your fresh new flatmate. In which room are you going to sleep? What happens when the honeymoon period ends? And who has to move out when you break up? Too bloody complicated. Had Sherlock hoped for it? Yep, sure, a bit. But dreams rarely come true, and John had seemed reluctant to pursue a romantic relationship with him.

“It’s not like we’re in love or anything,” John continued and ouch, that hurt.

“Right, yeah,” Sherlock said, his head barely wrapping around the words.

He didn’t know why they hit him so badly, but they did.

\--

They roamed around the city for the whole afternoon, trying to delay the flatmate meeting as much as possible. Sherlock knew a little Chinese restaurant that offered them dinner for free.

When John asked about it, Sherlock just flapped one hand around, saying the owner owed him a favour or summat.

The Chinese was _awesome_ , and when they got back home, way after midnight, John was sated and content.

Except for one tiny thing.

Sherlock had said they had to forget the night before. John would have liked nothing less.

It was unnerving, how much John had had fun with Sherlock that day, the possibility of a relationship just a breath away, and yet, untouchable.

The flatmates were already in bed, so luckily Sherlock and John managed to sneak inside the house and get to their corridor unnoticed.

“Well, thank you for the day,” John said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sherlock leaned with his back against the door, peering at John from under his lashes.

“Thanks for, you know, the day,” he said. John couldn’t resist him.

He launched himself at the other boy and kissed him.

Sherlock kissed him back after a couple of stunned seconds, and dragged John inside his room like he had done the night before.

“What are we doing?” Sherlock panted, halfway through removing John’s jumper and shirt in one movement.

“I don’t know,” John replied. Because he didn’t. He just knew that he had to fix what he had told Sherlock that afternoon. And bugger if Sherlock wanted to forget the night before ever happened. John had to try.

“Listen, Sherlock, what I said this afternoon, about us not being in love…” Sherlock froze, taking a step back.

“I understand.”

“No, no Sherlock! What I mean is… I don’t care. I want to try. Let’s try, please?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to meet John’s, full of… hope? So that was what Sherlock wanted too?

“God, come here,” John growled, and then they were kissing again, passionately and intensely.

\--

“So what, Johnlock is like, an item now?” Molly asked, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Johnlock?” Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“It’s your ship name, like Brangelina,” Bill explained. Sherlock still looked confused. John smiled at him and took his hand.

“I’ll explain it to you later,” he whispered. Sherlock shot him a relieved look.

Greg, Molly and Bill looked at them, waiting for their explanation. John sighed.

“We like each other, we want to try and be in a relationship. What’s hard to understand?”

Still, his flatmates were staring at him disapprovingly.

“What do you want to know more than this? Do you care that we have a pretty great sexual chemistry? That we-”

“Ew, no, stop there, gross,” Greg exclaimed.

Molly bit on her lower lip. She looked worried. “I just don’t want to have either of you move out over a silly crush.”

John saw Sherlock’s jaw clench, before the boy started speaking.

“What this is is none of your business.”

Then he got up, and disappeared into his room, slamming the door behind himself.

“Happy now?” John asked, getting up as well.

“John,” Molly called him softly.

He turned and saw his flatmates’ half-apologetic, half-worried twin expressions.

“Don’t make a mess, alright?” Bill said.

“You’re both fresh of a break up, you’ve both been hurt and don’t know each other that well. This could turn ugly.”

John gritted his teeth. “Stay the fuck out of this.”

Then he followed Sherlock into his room. He knocked.

“Sherlock, it’s me. Open up.”

No answer.

“Honey, come on.”

Steps walking towards the door.

“Did you just call me honey?” Sherlock asked, opening the door.

John grinned. He knew that would work.

“Well, it seems like the only appropriate pet name.”

Sherlock let out a small laugh, and John smiled at him.

He really liked Sherlock. He made his legs feel like jelly, his heart beat one thousand miles per second, his ears burn. Sherlock was tall and beautiful and a bit mysterious. Sherlock was also incredibly clever and sometimes a tad rude, but never purposefully. Sherlock was absolutely delicious, and John was immensely glad he had met that weird-looking kid. They could be something beautiful, John knew it. Something great, yeah.

Just give them time.

\--

One week into their fresh new relationship, Mary came back.

She rang the doorbell one quiet Saturday evening, while Sherlock and John were snuggled up on the couch throwing pop-corns at each other, the other three flatmates in their rooms, after claiming that it was disgusting living with “newlyweds.”

“Someone get the door,” John giggled, too intent in tickling Sherlock’s sides to bother getting up.

“John, John stop!” Sherlock yelled, laughing so hard even his insides hurt. But John was relentless.

“You two are disgustingly cute,” Bill grumbled as he passed them by to get the door. “And I would like to underline the _disgusting_.”

The door opened and closed, and a female voice said, “John.”

Both Sherlock and John froze.

Mary.

Sherlock shut his eyes. One week. One fucking week, that was how long they were going to last.

“Mary? What are y- what are you doing here?” John sounded confused, and astonished, and something else. Sherlock feared naming it.

Bill seemed to sense the tension in the room and quietly retreated to his bedroom. Sherlock wished he could do the same. He didn’t want to lose sight of John, though.

“I needed to talk to you,” she said, sheepishly. She glanced at Sherlock.

“Alone,” she added pointedly.

Sherlock felt fear clutching at his throat. John and Mary were going to talk alone, and John would dump Sherlock with no second thought, just like Victor had, no, no…

“Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in front of Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up from where they were fixed on the couch fabric.

“John, there’s no need…” He started to say, beginning to get up. He didn’t want John to feel forced to show him some sort of commitment.

John grabbed his arm, pulling him back on the couch. “You stay where you are, honey.”

Their special endearment, even after a week, still had the power to make Sherlock shiver and feel all warm and fuzzy.

Mary watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, before snapping, “Fine,” and heading towards Molly and Mike’s armchair.

She sat down and took her scarf off, fiddling with it in her lap. Her whole demeanour changed.

What a fucking good actress, Sherlock thought, rolling his eyes.

Still keeping her head bowed, and staring at John from under her lashes, she said, “Let me be forward. I’m sorry I hurt you, John. And in these days I realised… I want to start anew.”

“You’ve been pretty damn more than forward,” John grumbled.

Then he held his head high, and took Sherlock’s hand in his.

“I’m with Sherlock, now.”

Mary scoffed. “Oh please, John. How long have you been together? Two weeks? And you want to tell me you’d throw away all the months we’ve been together for this?”

John looked at Sherlock so fondly that Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat.

“God, yes.”

Mary gasped softly.

“John, seriously? I heard about him on campus, he’s a fucking freak!” She screeched.

John set his jaw, slowly turning his head to glare at her.

“Out of our house.”

Mary bit on her lower lip. “John…”

John huffed a hollow laugh. “Y’know? Had you asked me a couple of weeks ago, I’d have said yes, in an instant. But now…” He flapped one hand around.

“Now I’m with Sherlock. And he makes me happy. More than I have ever been with you, or anyone else. I hated you for not giving me closure, but now I have it. I’m with Sherlock, I don’t care of anything else.”

Sherlock’s heart was hammering in his chest, his ears were on fire, his mouth dry.

He loved John.

Christ, he had met him what, a month before? And they had been dating for exactly seven days, but god, did Sherlock love him.

Mary nodded at them, then got up and knotted her scarf around her neck.

“I guess this is a goodbye, then.”

John smiled bitterly. “You know where the door is.”

She scoffed, annoyed, before turning on her heels and flying out the flat.

Then, Sherlock threw himself at John.

He couldn’t tell him he loved him yet, it was too soon. He’d just have to show him.

\--

John was proud of how he had handled the thing with Mary. He’d finally had closure.

But what he was even more proud, was having Sherlock fucking Holmes sprawled on his bed, writhing around three of John’s fingers, shoved two knuckles deep in his arse.

“John, John, please,” Sherlock begged.

“You’re not ready yet,” John panted, crooking his middle finger to brush against Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock screamed, and something hit the door of their room.

“Shut the fuck up!” Greg’s voice yelled.

“Seconded!” Molly added from her room.

“Thirded!” Bill exclaimed.

John chuckled in Sherlock’s clavicle, listening to Sherlock’s low rumble.

“You’re my favourite screamer, Sherlock Holmes,” John said softly, leaning down to kiss Sherlock deeply.

Then he removed his fingers from Sherlock’s arse, and started crawling down the boy’s body, his lip never leaving his creamy skin.

He ghosted kisses all along Sherlock’s erect, dripping cock, but didn’t stop there, and continued in his track.

Sherlock was emitting the most delicious little sounds, and all John wanted to do was to _debauch_ him completely.

He gripped both Sherlock’s legs and put them around his shoulders, before lying belly down on the bed. Sherlock’s hips were already lifted by a pillow, so it wasn’t hard for John to lean forward and lick a wet trail on his crack.

Sherlock gasped, and John smiled smugly to himself before spreading Sherlock’s arse cheeks with his hands and dipping forward to lick at his entrance. He kept licking and sucking and fucking Sherlock with his tongue until the younger boy was begging for John’s cock to fill him, for John to _fuck him already_ , please John…

John took pity on his lover, and leaned to the side to retrieve the bottle of lube and a condom. He ripped the packet open with his teeth, and rolled it on himself.

Then he coated himself in lube, and lubricated Sherlock’s entrance some more.

It was their first time doing this, and John didn’t wanna hurt him in any way.

“Ready?” He asked, after bracing himself atop Sherlock.

“Just fuck me already, John!” Sherlock yelled, and John chuckled.

He gripped the base of his cock and guided it towards Sherlock’s entrance, then gave a little thrust.

He kept going slowly, Sherlock gasping and panting underneath him, John watching his cock slowly disappearing into Sherlock with his mouth hanging open.

When he was all inside, he stopped for a few moments, to let Sherlock adjust.

Christ, he was inside Sherlock. _He was. Inside Sherlock._

John could barely breathe, and his eyes filled with tears.

What the fuck? John Watson had never, never in his life, cried during sex. Never.

“Move, please John,” Sherlock pleaded, and John snapped out of his thoughts and _moved_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE THANKS TO CAMILA WHO INSPIRED THE HARDEST PASSAGES OF THIS CHAPTER. I LOVE YOU.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed! And thank you for every kudos, bookmark and subscription!


	5. Allegro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 2am, I'm dying ugh
> 
> Sorry about the delay, I keep getting stuck, hope you'll enjoy anyway, I did my best! :) xx

“Okay John, I need you to focus.”

“Yes.”

“My mother will try everything to break us up so quick, tell me something she could use.”

John shut his eyes in thought.

“Erm… Oh, yeah! I’m scared of tulips.”

Sherlock’s jaw fell. He furrowed his brow.

“You’re scared of tulips,” he deadpanned.

John blushed a bit.

“I mean… So many layers man, who knows what’s inside.”

“John.”

“I don’t know!”

Sherlock sighed and slumped on the couch.

It was almost Christmas, and he and John were going to spend the holidays with Sherlock’s parents.

Sherlock had initially refused, but the couple had insisted to meet Sherlock’s new flame. Sherlock also knew how his parents were; when he first got with Victor, they had tried to scare him off in any way, just to be sure he was serious (or as serious as a fourteen-year-old could be).

When Sherlock and Victor had broken up, his parents had been heartbroken, especially his mother. Sherlock doubted she had recovered.

“Okay, now tell me something your mum could use against _you_.”

Sherlock bit on his lower lip.

“Well, I believe in the horoscope,” he mumbled.

John laughed and sat on the couch beside Sherlock, his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “You’re just having me on, mate.”

Sherlock huffed, miffed. “Just in the Japanese one, I listen to it every morning and it’s weirdly accurate.”

“Wait wait wait. Do you know Japanese?”

Sherlock preened. “I know everything.”

John hit him round the head. “Cockhead, you don’t. You didn’t even know the Earth goes round the Sun!”

“It’s not relevant,” Sherlock growled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Been there, discussed that.”

Right then, a livid Greg entered the living room.

“Shouldn’t you be at the airport?” John asked him, when Greg stomped in the kitchen and started fixing himself a cuppa.

“My flight got cancelled,” Greg snarled, slamming the cup on the counter.

“And when I told my family they were like, ‘Oh no problem, you can stay home,’ like they were fucking _relieved_. I guess my sister is bringing her politician of a boyfriend and they don’t want the black sheep of the Lestrades present.”

Finished talking, Greg took a sip of his tea.

“Shit, hot!” He sputtered, splashing tea all around.

“He’s upset, lemme deal with ‘im,” John whispered to Sherlock.

“I fucken heard ya, Watson!”

John flashed Greg a victorious smile, “Gregory, would you like to spend Christmas with me and Sherlock at his house? You can’t stay alone at the flat.”

As Greg nodded, Sherlock mentally strangled John.

This Christmas was shaping up to be a tremendous disaster.

\--

Greg, John and Sherlock stepped out of the car and stared at Sherlock’s _enormous_ house.

“For fuck’s sakes, you didn’t tell me you were related to the bloody Queen,” John muttered, feeling more and more nervous about his meeting with the Holmes parents.

He was glad Greg was there to support him, and that he had Sherlock’s hand to hold on to.

Sherlock huffed, annoyed. “Please John, avoid these fantastic jokes in front of my parents.”

Then he rang the doorbell, and John waited, without breathing, as footsteps approached the door.

In the doorstep appeared a fifty-something woman, who once had probably been very beautiful. Her eyes were the same verdigris as Sherlock, and she was dressed with fine, very fashionable clothes. She had a kind smile playing at her lips, and her eyes were shining.

“Sherlock,” she said warmly, taking a step forward to hug him tight.

“Hello mummy,” Sherlock mumbled awkwardly, blushing till the tips of his ears, his voice muffled against the woman’s chest.

John smiled fondly at him, feeling full of love for this odd boy.

“And you must be John,” she grinned, turning to Greg. “You’re so handsome, dear,” she continued.

Embarrassed, John stepped forward, “Actually, I’m John.”

Violet Holmes turned to him with a surprised smile. “Oh,” she said, almost disappointed.

John tried not to let it deter him. He knew her every move was on purpose to make him feel uneasy, and Sherlock did have warned him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he said, charmingly.

“And I’m Greg, flatmate,” Greg mumbled awkwardly.

Mrs. Holmes nodded, “I’m Violet Holmes, but you can call me Violet.”

“Please come in, and oh Sherlock, I have a little surprise for you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, and John started sweating. What was she up to?

They entered the foyer were a butler (a fucking butler!) took their winter coats. Violet led them then to a well-lit living room, full of flowers, mistletoe and a huge Christmas tree in a corner. Inside, about fifteen people were standing, talking in small groups and drinking champagne from expensive-looking flutes.

John recognized some people, that Sherlock had previously shown him in pictures – Siger Holmes, father, standing in a corner, rocking on his heels; Mycroft Holmes, brother, talking quietly to Aunt Virginia and Uncle Alan; Robert and Christopher, cousins, laughing with a tall, charming man John didn’t know, as well as all the other people in the room.

Suddenly, Sherlock froze beside John. Like, literally _froze_.

“Mummy, what have you done?” He murmured, and Violet Holmes flapped a hand around.

“He was back from America, and he has spent the last six Christmases with us, you know he doesn’t get along with his family,” Violet tutted, beckoning over the handsome guy Robert and Christopher were talking to.

“Victor,” Sherlock stuttered, and John felt like he couldn’t breathe. This was a bit too much, even for Violet Holmes.

Victor was tall, unjustly beautiful and his smile was incredibly charming. His skin was the colour of dark onyx, his eyes shining with life and intelligence.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he smirked and for fuck’s sakes, even his voice was sex.

John gritted his teeth. How was he going to survive that lunch?

He stepped in front of Sherlock, aggressively, protectively, his jealous side emerging with force.

“I’m John, Sherlock’s boyfriend,” he introduced himself, a possessive smile playing at his lips.

Victor smiled back, something dangerous and fake that made a shiver run down John’s spine.

“I’ll show you your rooms, boys,” Violet told Sherlock, John and Greg. “Follow me.”

She disappeared through a door, and the three flatmates followed her.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, grabbing his sleeve.

“That’s the Victor, I reckon?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered back, fidgeting on his spot.

“This was a low blow, I grant it, but we’ll make it through,” he continued, “we’ll make it through this Christmas, I promise, John.”

Then he bent down and kissed John full on the mouth.

“I know it’s not the time nor the place, John but I… I don’t want you to doubt this ever, during these few days. I love you, John Watson.”

John bit down on his lower lip, and wound his arms around Sherlock’s neck.

“I love you too,” he murmured against his lips. They kissed again, a long, sweet brush of lips on lips, just breathing each other in.

“Boys, this way!” Violet called.

Sherlock and John grinned dumbly at each other, and linked their fingers.

They followed Violet up the stairs, and found themselves in a long corridor.

“Greg, you’re staying here, beside Victor. He’s a dear boy, such a good lad. Sherlock, you’ll be in your old room,” she chirped, gesturing to the room in front of Victor’s.

“John, you’ll be upstairs, follow me.”

“Mummy, John and I can sleep together, you let Victor and I sleep in the same room,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

“Don’t be silly Sherlock, dear,” she tutted, “you and Victor had been together much longer, and when you were younger I didn’t mind. John agrees with me, don’t you dear?”

John did _not_ agree with her, but he couldn’t say that.

“O-of course, ma’am.”

\--

Dinner was awkward for John. He didn’t talk to anyone, sat as he was amongst people he didn’t know. He watched as Sherlock played with his food, away from him, whilst Victor talked to him.

Meanwhile, Lestrade was flirting as hard as he could with Sherlock’s brother Mycroft, who was blushing beet red with every word Greg spoke. And Violet _didn’t mind_.

She let Greg whisper in Mycroft’s ear, play with his auburn hair and kiss his hand, but god forbid he and Sherlock even sat _close_ to each other.

 _Endure, Watson_ , John told himself, gritting his teeth. Tomorrow it was going to be Christmas, perhaps things would get better.

When dinner ended, everyone got back to their room, and John, after kissing Sherlock goodnight, climbed the stairs to his room under Violet’s piercing gaze.

At around three in the morning, someone knocked on his door.

John bolted upright, and hit his head on the low ceiling. The room he had been given was a hole.

“Yes?” He asked, sleepily, rubbing his sore head.

“It’s me,” Sherlock said, opening the heavy wooden door and peering in.

“Hey, honey,” John sighed, already scooping up, making space for Sherlock.

“I can’t sleep without you anymore,” Sherlock grumbled, burrowing his face in John’s neck, “It’s annoying.”

John huffed a laugh in Sherlock’s curls. “God, I love you so fucking much, Sherlock.”

Sherlock kissed John’s throat, and John could feel his smile. Sherlock tangled their legs together and finally, they fell asleep.

\--

Violet wasn’t impressed upon finding John and Sherlock all over each other in John’s bedroom, Sherlock under the covers, ready to give John a morning blowjob.

“I expected better from you, John,” she said, before leaving and shutting the door.

“John,” John parroted, “Like I’m the one under the covers. Like I’m her son.”

Sherlock emerged from under the duvet and leaned with his chin on John’s sternum.

“Don’t take it too bad. She likes you.”

“Pff. She even invited your perfect ex. I bet she’d rather you be with him than with me,” John grumbled, getting up, his morning boner flagging sadly.

“C’mon, let’s dress up and go downstairs,” he continued, slipping his boxer briefs on.

Sherlock sighed loudly, and got up to circle John’s waist with his arms. He kissed John’s cheek, “Everything will be alright, and Victor is everything but perfect. You, John Watson, _you_ are perfect.”

John smiled involuntarily, and turned his face to kiss Sherlock’s mouth.

“ _You_ are perfect, honeybee. Oh, and hey, Merry Christmas.”

They got downstairs and ate breakfast with everyone. Mycroft and Lestrade were nowhere to be seen.

“Ugh,” Sherlock said, then, in John’s ear, “Mycroft and Greg are shagging in the room above our head this very minute.”

John chocked on his coffee. He glared at his boyfriend, “You could avoid telling me. Fucking gross.”

Sherlock huffed a quiet laugh, and resumed dipping his scones in his cup of tea.

“What’s funny?” Violet asked, entering the room with grace.

“Oh, nothing,” Sherlock said, smirking at John, who laughed softly at his boyfriend mischievous expression.

“Good then, because Victor is alone in the garden, maybe you can go entertain him, Sherlock?”

“Mummy, I don’t think-”

“And uh, John, help me lay the table.

“Don’t we have a maid for that-”

Violet clapped her hands together. “Let’s go.”

John sighed, and leaned over the table to peck Sherlock’s lips, then followed Violet and started helping laying dishes and cutlery on the table where they had eaten the night before.

\--

Sherlock exited the house and kicked a little pebble, making it fly away. He loved his mother, he did, but her fixation with Victor was getting a little bit too much.

He had tried everything to reassure John that he wasn’t the problem, but the reality was that John _was_ the problem, because he wasn’t perfect, clever, poised Victor.

John was working class and Mummy didn’t approve of that.

She had also unhealthily bonded with Victor, and that was why Sherlock had initially worried about telling her and Father about their break-up.

But then he had met John, and nothing had mattered anymore to him. To his father as well.

To his mother, well, there was still a bit to work on.

“Hey, Sherlock,” Victor exclaimed, running to him. God, Sherlock couldn’t stand him anymore. Hoe he had survived six years with the man was a mystery.

“Vic,” he snarled, knowing full well that Victor despised being called like that. True to himself, Victor grimaced, but recovered quickly.

“Nice boyfriend of yours, dear,” he said, a malicious grin on his full, dark lips, “a bit short don’t you think? But oh well, _de gustibus_.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and said nothing. Fucking asshole.

“Where did you find him, by the way? In a mine?”

Sherlock glared at him. “I see you’re still bad at everything despite your precious studies.”

Victor bit down on his lower lip, as if he was trying not to laugh.

“You will get tired of that caveman, you know, then you’ll come back _begging_ for me. This little phase of yours will end soon.”

“What _phase_?”

“The ‘I live in a shabby flat with four other people and my boyfriend is a rude slag and I feel cool for that’ phase.”

“Fuck you, Victor.”

Victor tutted. “Such a dirty little mouth on you.”

Right then, brunch was called, and Sherlock stomped inside.

\--

After a brief brunch, everyone moved to the large living room, and sat down for lunch. This time, John was sat right beside Sherlock, in front of Violet and Siger, and he _knew_ something was up.

He didn’t know what, though.

“So, John, you study Medicine?” Siger asked him, as a maid served him the first dish.

“I, er, yeah,” John replied, slightly awkward at being served by a sodding maid.

“Hmm, good, and you want to be an army doctor then?”

John froze. Sherlock froze. Greg froze.

“What?” John managed to say.

“Oh,” Siger looked surprised, “Violet told me you’re going into the army, isn’t it true?”

“You’re enrolling?” Sherlock roared, and silence fell on the table.

John started sweating, panicked. “I, I was gonna tell you.”

Sherlock got up and fled the room.

“John, is it true?” Greg questioned, mouth agape.

“I was going to tell y’all once I had more information,” John tried to explain, “But that the only way I can afford-”

John looked around at the people staring at him, at Violet smiling in her flute, at Victor smirking a few seats away.

He needed out.

“Excuse me,” He said, and followed Sherlock outside in the garden.

The snow was crunchy beneath his feet, and it didn’t take long for John to find Sherlock, sat on a bench beside an old, tall tree.

Wordlessly, he sat down beside his boyfriend, and waited for the right words to come to his mind.

“I’m sorry,” He murmured, pathetically obvious.

“I want you not to go,” Sherlock said, not looking at John.

John gritted his teeth. “Sherlock, this is my choice to make.”

“Do you wanna get shot?”

“I wanna save lives, I wanna be useful.”

“You would be useful even as a plain doctor, as a surgeon.”

John shook his head. “First, I can’t really afford med school and secondly, I have always wanted to be a soldier.”

Sherlock scoffed. “That’s a stupid dream.”

“Thanks.”

“Is that really what you want, John?”

John nodded, sighing. “Yes.”

Sherlock nodded as well, his lip wobbly. “Then I see no other solution. I still have to figure my future out, while you have it all planned out. I don’t want you to go die while I stay here, not knowing what to do, alone and worrying about you. We worked pretty well as friends, John. We could… go back.”

John felt like being stabbed in the chest. His ears ringing, he forced himself to ask, “Is this what you really want?”

Sherlock turned his face and John stopped breathing. Sherlock’s eyes were cold, and empty, and _certain_.

“Of course. It’s the most logical solution. We should break up.”

John saw no grief in those eyes, no sorrow, no regret. Just plain, pure logic.

“I… Okay. Friends then.”

He outstretched his hand, every muscle in his body aching, every breath like sandpaper down his throat.

“Friends,” Sherlock replied, taking John’s hand. Then he got up, and disappeared inside the house.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the love, please leave a comment if you enjoyed! Sorry about the breaking up eheh 
> 
> But don't worry! Happy ending :)


	6. Vivo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! Here's the much awaited happy ending! 
> 
> Enjoy! xx
> 
> (Curiosity: _vivo_ in Italian means "alive" eheh)

John stopped dead in the bathroom door. Sherlock, at the sink, brushing his teeth. Shirtless.

John closed his eyes.

“Sherlock,” he called. “Rule number one. You don’t go around the flat naked, or I swear this whole ‘just friends’ thing is flying out of the window.”

John heard Sherlock sigh annoyed, and rustling of fabric. When he dared open his eyes, Sherlock was wearing an oversized tee shirt that left his collarbone bare.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to even his breathing.

Being friends with Sherlock Holmes was proving to be an impossible task.

\--

“So we have ‘friends rules’ now?” Sherlock asked over his slice of bread with jam.

John resisted the impulse that pushed him to lean over the table and lick the jam away from Sherlock’s fingers.

He swallowed loudly. “We must have.”

Sherlock nodded, thoughtful.

“Well then, you can’t lick your lips,” he said eventually.

John frowned. “I don’t do that.”

“Oh please, you do it all the time,” Sherlock scoffed. “It’s quite distracting.”

John rolled his eyes and nodded. “Fine,” he grumbled, “But you cannot stare at me as you make your bloody deductions,” he continued, pointing at Sherlock with his knife.

Sherlock looked taken aback. “You find my deductions arousing?”

John let out an embarrassed laugh. “Man, do I.”

Sherlock knitted his brows together and stared at John in that way that made John squirm.

“You’re fucking weird, Watson,” Sherlock eventually sentenced, and went on eating his jam and bread.

\--

“What are we?” John asked in between kisses, hands fumbling to shed Sherlock’s shirt.

“We’re just… two people who wanna be friends but are sometimes attracted to each other.”

“Works bloody well for me,” John replied, and tackled Sherlock to the bed, making the man laugh.

\--

“You two either need to date each other or date other people,” Molly told John one evening, as they ate shawarma.

John gritted his teeth and didn’t reply. Molly sighed.

“John, this arrangement doesn’t work. You’re both still in love with each other.”

John took a bite and then stared into Molly’s worried gaze. “He doesn’t want me back, who else can I be with?”

“You see? This answer is the exact reason why you should date someone else. Go out, have fun, it doesn’t have to be the love of your life.”

“I would feel like I’m cheating on Sherlock, though,” John murmured sadly, and after that, Molly shut up.

Later, when everyone was in bed and John was still thinking about Molly’s words in front of the muted telly, Sherlock came padding into the living room and sat beside him.

“You should seriously consider moving on from me.”

John let out a strangled laugh.

Sherlock pinned him with his magnetic gaze. “You deserve something amazing, John. You deserve love.”

This said, he got up and disappeared into his room.

John did _not_ silently cry himself to sleep.

\--

John was dating Sarah now. She was nice and decent, moderately pretty and endearingly shy.

She wasn’t Sherlock, though.

\--

John took Sarah’s home when he knew everyone was already asleep.

“This is 221B!” He announced proudly, grinning like an idiot.

Sarah laughed quietly, and let her gaze wander on the apartment.

Not even half an hour later, they were on John’s bed, snogging quite passionately.

Her kisses were nothing like Sherlock’s, but John could roll with them, with their softness and sweet tentativeness.

John slowly lowered Sarah with her back on the mattress, and crawled over her.

Perhaps tonight he could get laid!

It was then that someone threw their door open.

“John! John I know what I’m gonna do after uni! I’ll be a consulting detective!” Sherlock yelled, and then froze.

“Shit, sorry, I’m gonna, ah, go now,” Sherlock stammered, red till the tip of his ears. Also a bit crestfallen.

John let his head fall on Sarah’s shoulder. She patted his back, then asked, “Who he? Flatmate?”

How could John lie?

“My ex.”

Sarah’s hand stilled.

“You live with your ex?”

God, it was over.

\--

“I’m sorry about last night, for you and that insipid girl,” Sherlock apologized at breakfast.

“Cheers,” John replied, dipping a scone in his tea.

“I’m sorry about all that happened between us, I really am. You could have a future now, perhaps, with Sarah or…”

“Sherlock, shut up. I don’t regret kissing you that night, okay? Never have, never will.”

Realising he had said perhaps too much, John sighed and hid his face in the crook of his elbow.

“Tell me about this consulting detective thing.”

\--

“I have never been on a date,” Sherlock said nervously, as Bill fixed his jacket.

“Everything’s gonna be alreight man, I grant you,” Bill said with a grin.

John tried not to let his jealousy take the better side of him, and remained sat on the couch stubbornly staring at the black telly.

Greg put his hand on his thigh and squeezed, in silent support. John let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding and turned his attention away from Bill and Molly helping Sherlock get ready for a bloody date with someone _that wasn’t him_.

“So, how’s it going with Mycroft?” John asked his friend, and didn’t miss Greg’s involuntary smile.

“Bloody well, mate, though the man is a posh git.”

John chuckled softly. “You mean posher than Sherlock?”

“Rotting hell, yeah! Not so posh in bed though…”

“Yuck, Greg!” John exclaimed, just as Sherlock yelled, “Could you not talk about my brother’s sex life _ever_ again? I might want to eat sometime these days.”

\--

John was the only one still up when Sherlock came back from his date.

He didn’t turn to look at him as he sat on the couch beside John.

“Date gone wrong?”

“Turns out Sebastian just wanted to win a bet by getting a date with me.”

“What a prick!” John exclaimed. Sherlock said nothing.

“You knew,” John sighed. “Then why did you go out with him?”

Sherlock tried to find the right words.

“I’m like a broken vase. Good for nothing.”

John stared at him, horrified.

“You're not broken, Sherlock,” he said with such certainty, that Sherlock found it hard not to believe him.

“Neither are you, you know.”

John huffed out a sad laugh. “Maybe I'm a little broken,” he murmured, trying to sound amused, but failing miserably, his eyes misty and his smile fake.

Sherlock shook his head.

“You're perfect.”

\--

It’s merely an hour later that they have stumbled into bed together.

“Sherlock, Sherlock,” John whispered into planes of creamy skin.

Then the reality of the situation hits John right in the solar plexus, the reality of Sherlock there, splayed underneath him, so soft and beautiful and open and _his._

“Be mine,” John begged, “Please, say that you’re mine.”

Sherlock shook his head, tears in his eyes. “I can’t.”

John took a shuddering breath. “Ask me not to join the army, I won’t, if you ask me I won’t join.”

Sherlock smiled sadly, reaching up to caress John’s cheek.

“That’s why I’ll never ask. You would resent me in the end.”

“I could never resent you,” John whispered brokenly.

Sherlock shook his head again. “Kiss me,” he just murmured, and John complied.

\--

Then Mycroft Holmes came to the flat to stay with Greg a couple of days. And everything changed.

\--

John didn’t know what Mycroft had told Sherlock, he just knew that when he went away, Sherlock was… different.

Especially in the way his hand brushed against John’s over breakfast, or he passed his fingers through John’s hair when they were sat watching the telly, or how he leaned with his head on John’s belly on quiet nights.

John had to ask again.

“Sherlock, what are we?”

He feared the answer.

“Well… having you as a friend doesn’t work, friend with benefits is just painful, so I’d say we are… together?”

“What the fuck has your brother talked to you about?”

“Oh, nothing, just how stupid and selfish and childish I was being.”

“Just this?” John asked suspiciously.

Sherlock smirked.

“Well, and something about keeping an eye on you if you end up in a war.”

John pushed Sherlock off his lap. “Prat,” he grumbled, but he was laughing.

“So… are we together? Just like this?”

“It seems I can’t resist you, John Watson,” Sherlock purred, leaning up to kiss him on the mouth.

“I love you,” John breathed, and God, it felt _so good_ being able to say it.

“I love you too,” Sherlock replied, and then they were kissing again.

 

* * *

 

A few months later

 

* * *

 

John stood in his uniform before a bus full of other young recruits.

He had just finished his first three years of pre-clinic in med school, and could now start his training as a doctor in the army.

Molly hugged him tight, while Mike gave me three sandwiches made by him. Bill cried and kissed John’s cheek and behaved like a fucking drama queen. Greg just shook his hand and said something about not dying during trainer like a pussy. Git.

Then, Sherlock.

John hugged him to his chest, his arms all around his boyfriend’s torso.

“I’m gonna miss you so much,” John murmured, and Sherlock just nodded, face hidden in John’s shoulder.

“Last call,” the sergeant yelled, and the various boys and girls in uniform hurried to bid goodbye to their loved ones.

John leaned up and kissed Sherlock’s mouth.

“Take care of those four dipsticks, alright? And write me.”

“You try not to enjoy it too much and come back in one piece,” Sherlock replied.

“And you try not to let what those idiots in uni tell you get to you, alright?”

“Oh, I’m gonna be fine. And you know why? Because I met _you_.”

John smiled slowly, and kissed Sherlock again.

“See you soon, honeybee.”

Sherlock smiled, and watched as John climbed on the bus.

“See you soon, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, please leave a comment and follow me @[astralcasper](http://astralcasper.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, love you all!


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